On Our Level
by Stephensmat
Summary: Jessica Jones or Daredevil aren't going to save the world from an alien invasion, but for the streets that nobody else cares about, she's the only kind of hero that can do some good. The streets look after their own, and the Avengers don't live on their level. Set during Luke Cage Season One, Post Daredevil-Season 2; but this is not a crossover. Rated hard T for heavy themes.


The life of a PI was no easy thing when you were a superhero. And being a superhero was no easy thing when you didn't like people.

Jessica hated sleep, almost as much as she hated being awake. But she couldn't expect to keep up the lavish lifestyle of cheap booze, tap water and fast food if she didn't haul her ass off the floor beside her bed.

"Welcome to Alias Investigations. How can we help you?"

Malcolm had become her assistant somehow. She hadn't paid him much, and she wasn't quite sure if he was there from 9 to 5, or just when he had nowhere else to go. But every so often, he would arrange a client.

The Client today was an older woman, with a pale, drawn face. She had experienced something bad. Jessica had seen it all before. Her age said this wasn't an infidelity case. Her clothes said she didn't have a lot of money to toss around.

"My name is Blanche Daley." The woman said. "Four days ago, my son was murdered."

Jessica sat upright. "This is really a matter for the police."

"The police say that the knife used broke off in my son's ribs. They say it had the blood of three other people on it." Mrs Daley reported. "They aren't meant to tell me things like that, but I insisted. The police are saying that it was probably-"

"Someone trying to get cash in a hurry." Jessica finished for her. "Don't judge the cops too harshly, Mrs Daley. The local precinct's are trying madly to wash their hands of Fisk and his legacy. I don't know a single cop that isn't under some level of investigation. When you're under siege, you don't want to stick your neck out any further than you have to. The Kitchen is harder on them than most of us."

"I know that. I have lived here most of my life." Daley was unimpressed by the skinny woman in jeans. "The ones that want to help are outnumbered by the cops that don't, and that's before they ever leave the station. I know a few legit police. They tell me random crimes are nearly impossible to solve. They tell me that I will more likely live to see a Second Alien Invasion than see justice for my son."

"They're probably right." Jessica agreed. "What makes you think I'm any better?"

"I don't. I just think that if someone was able to track down the man who killed my son, and then presented the evidence, the weapon, and the killer; in a nice neat bow, the police might be willing to take the credit, as long as someone else does all the investigating."

"Sounds about right." Jessica snorted. "But they ain't wrong about the 'random crime' angle. There's no motive to search for, no witnesses that'll admit to seeing anything, no pattern of anger… What was stolen?"

"My son rarely carried more than thirty dollars. That, and his phone was taken. They didn't take his keys, or his car."

"So they were after something quick and movable. The cops are right, this is about quick cash. Probably a mugging gone bad. And there are no shortage of them in Hell's Kitchen."

"Not that we won't help you." Malcolm put in. "The Detective just wants you to get an honest appraisal of the odds."

Mrs Daley looked at Malcolm imperiously. "What is your name, young man?"

"M-malcolm." The man stammered. "I mean, Malcolm; ma'am."

"Does this young woman need you to play 'good cop' very often?"

"I find it keeps prospective clients from leaving and taking their fee with them." Malcolm offered.

"In the last week, I have lost my son, had my heat turned off and three different police officers toss their way through my unmentionables looking for any cash that might be 'evidence in a criminal activity' for them to confiscate." Mrs Daley glared at Malcolm so hard that he nearly hid behind Jessica. "You think I'm intimidated by Jessica Jones being impolite at me?"

"No Ma'am." Malcolm said promptly.

Jessica looked at Daley carefully, and found herself almost smiling. "The firm of Alias Investigations will be glad to take your case. We get $100 per day, plus expenses."

"I can give you three days, and I'd appreciate it if the 'expenses' were kept… uncreative."

* * *

Jessica began her manhunt the same way she always did: By seeing if her quarry was in any of the bars within walking distance from her office; waiting for a chance to confess. He wasn't, but to her surprise, the bartenders were able to point her in the right direction. They pointed her to Youtube.

She found a dozen variations of the video. Some with sound effects. Some with music tracks, many of them dubbed. There were only three people in it; not counting the woman filming it. After a few minutes on the internet, she was sure that the uploader was not involved.

But the video gave her a place to start, and Malcolm volunteered to start running it down. Mostly out of a desire to get him out of her hair for a while, she agreed.

A few hours later her phone started ringing and she knew she had made a mistake.

* * *

"Y'know, back in the old days; about ten minutes ago?" Jessica groaned. "I wouldn't answer the phone to anyone except Trish and my AA sponsor. I miss those days."

"You've never been to AA in your life." Malcolm retorted.

"I went once, on a job. They frowned on me bringing a flask." She told him. "Don't trust people who don't want you to do the one thing you're amazingly competent at."

"I have personal injury lawsuits from fifteen people who insist you're amazingly good at kicking ass too."

"Let them sue me. If I couldn't afford the phone, then maybe people would stop calling me for help." Jessica told him. "How's that going by the way?"

"I went by Pops Barbershop. His friends there are keeping it open. He had an address for the fat guy in the video, but it's old." Malcolm reported. "I checked, it was part of The Projects."

 _Pops would have had the name and address in his head._ Jessica rolled her eyes. "It's just never simple, is it?"

"Well, I got one idea. They wouldn't give me any names. See, even in Hell's Kitchen, Dealers get busted all the time, or at the very least, run off by other parties. And Pops wouldn't protect a Dealer; so neither would his friends. So he's protecting someone else in that video."

"Think I should come talk to them?"

"Pops had a swear jar. You can't afford to ask questions here."

* * *

"The only other two people in the video are Iron Man and the junkie." Jessica explained to Trish. "I asked around some people I knew, to see what might happen to any 'regular customers' of a Dealer who gets busted. They all find new sources, but it can depend on who their last one was."

"So you need an ID on the dealer." Trish nodded, taking a bite of her salad.

"I figured it shouldn't be hard. Thirty million people have seen his face." Jessica said. "Malcolm's friend in Harlem had an address, but no name. At least, not his current one. But then I noticed that the video had gone viral, and I figured anything involving superheroes that people were talking about? Your thing."

"Nothing says 'job security' like specializing." Trish chuckled. "I was actually going to do a story on the video when it went viral… Look, anything with an Avenger involved becomes front page news automatically. Then Stark made a fuss about it and we looked into it for a side piece on crime rates in the Kitchen, but then the Daredevil guy went head to head with Fisk and suddenly nobody was talking to us because the big media and their deep pockets got interested." Trish reported. "But before everyone started talking in another direction, we got a name: Leo Violets."

"Violets?" Jessica felt her hands shake a little. "Seriously? That's his name?"

"That's the name we got. He's probably got more than one. I'm told his credit rating doesn't really wow them at the bank, so he started paying cash to someone in the Kitchen, gave them a fake one." Trish explained. "Are you okay? Still breathing?"

"Did he pick the name out of a box of crayons or something?" Jessica fought for sarcasm. Kilgrave had been dead for months, but anything that reminded her of him, or even that… that damn jacket he wore…

"Jessica!" Trish's hand was on her arm, stroking her wrist. A friendly gesture to anyone watching. For Jessica, an anchor.

"I'm fine." Jessica bit out, and bunched her free hand into a fist tight enough that she could feel her fingernails break against her muscle. _I'm fine._ She told herself again, and grit her teeth hard enough to hurt until she believed it. "Guys like that can't change their spots, Trish." She said coldly. "He gets run off that corner, he only needs to find another one. If it takes him a week to tell his regulars where to find him, they only get more desperate, and willing to part with more cash. Smart money says he even raised his prices. If he didn't get arrested or shot, Iron Man did him a favor."

Trish patted her lips with a napkin delicately. "Let me make a call."

She rose to excuse herself. Jessica took the opportunity to pull out her phone and check the clip again. The video had gone viral after less than a day. Shaky footage, taken by a bystander with a phone. Some oversized guy dealing meth, someone buying it. The buyer was all shakes and jitters, looking for the meaning of life in a syringe. The deal was just concluding when Iron Man showed up out of nowhere to slam down like the world's most expensive hammer, aiming everything from a Repulsor to a Uni-Beam at the Dealer, ignoring the buyer completely.

The Dealer, Leo Violets, pissed himself on the spot and passed out, and the woman taking the video whooped and hollered at the great show.

Jessica had followed the links included with the clip and saw Stark 'tell the tale' on Ellen, and then do a little dance.

But the thing nobody had stopped to ask: What about the customer? What about the jittery, barely coherent teenage junkie that was tripped out on everything he could take? Where would he end up? And how many people would he rip off or kill to keep getting the stuff he needed once Iron Man ran off his source?

"I still can't believe he did that." Trish had rejoined the table, and given voice to what Jessica was thinking. "I mean, I get that he's a big time Avenger and all, but did he think it was going to help anyone down here?"

Jessica barely blinked. "He doesn't _live_ down here." She drawled, the same tone of voice she always used. "I've seen his contrail once or twice. My guess is he was flying up to Manhattan from somewhere, and noticed the deal going down. I wouldn't be surprised if that was Stark's first time in the Kitchen."

"You think your client's son was killed by the junkie in that vid?"

"That's the theory. I think he needs a fix thanks to the Tin Man, and he'd be getting desperate enough to pay whatever he needs to. Guy like that can't keep a job, so he needs to steal. Most crime down here is either for tribute to someone, or for a fix." Jessica slugged the wine back in one gulp and took her sister's glass. "Why do you think I always clean out the wallet of whoever tries to rob me at night? Gotta get Whiskey money somewhere."

"I don't know, Jessica. That's a stretch. A Dealer's got more than one customer. And that's assuming your Client lost her son to one of them at all."

"Trish, the bartenders near my office put me onto the Youtube vid. Everyone already knows who killed Will Daley; but if it was the Dealer, everyone would just say so."

"Even in the Kitchen?" Trish shook her head. "If you had something that connected William Daley's death to that junkie, or anyone at all…"

"I'm working on it." Jessica told her. "I find Leo Violets and I can ask where to find the kid in the video. If Violets, or one of his customers, killed Daley, then that explains why everyone in the know is pointing me at the video."

Trish held up her phone. "I've got my guy looking up the name." She took a bite of salad. "Personally, I think you ought to put Iron Man on this one."

Jessica's lip twisted into what was almost a cold smirk. "Think he would have stopped if there wasn't someone filming the deal? Most dangerous place in the world is between Stark and a camera."

"I'm serious. It's his mess." Her adopted sister said gamely. "I've got contacts in the media. I could get a phone call to Avengers Tower at least. An email. Something."

"And then what? He'd come down here play Galahad, gleaming armor and everything. But sooner or later Hydra would do something, or a volcano would go off; and he'd forget the Kitchen exists. I told you, sis: He doesn't live down here."

Trish's phone beeped, and she checked the text message. "They searched the files. Leo Violets does indeed pop up on our radar again after that video."

"Where?"

"Still in the Kitchen. He took over a Pawn Shop when the last owner… died."

"He took over a Pawn Shop?" Jessica smirked triumphantly. "I love being right."

"You think it's a front?" Trish was suddenly in 'interview' mode. "You think he stopped selling on a street corner, and started selling in a pawn shop."

"Bring in enough stolen goods for a dime bag, and he gets to sell everything legit." Jessica nodded. "Perfect side business. The kind that an Avenger doesn't care about."

"It's still not right. The Accords don't cover Street Crime, apparently. They can't throw their weight around in any other country, or any other jurisdiction, but apparently Stark's still allowed to prevent 'incidentals'. The Accords protect the world, but not The Kitchen."

"As always." Jessica downed the rest of the glass and passed it back to Trish.

"What would you do if I ever stopped ordering wine with lunch?"

"Same thing I do with breakfast. Sleep through it."

* * *

There were two or three Pawn Shops in the Kitchen that accepted stolen goods. Leo Violets had taken over the most notorious one in the Kitchen. Jessica wasn't sure if he was that brave, that desperate, or truly advanced in stupidity; but she went to see him at closing time, and he let her in. His face had changed since the video had gone viral. His hair had been dyed, he had a mustache now… But there was no hiding his belly; and he was still the same brand of scum that Jessica had a sixth sense for.

"Hey, I'm looking for a phone that was stolen last week. I thought the thief might try to sell it off." Jessica said brightly. "It belonged to someone I know. His name was William Daley."

"Was?" Violets clarified.

Jessica kicked herself mentally. "Well, that was his name last week, and I assume it still is. He's my boyfriend."

The guy just looked at her. "No."

"Really." Jessica said winningly. She tried to play it off as a joke, giving a fake laugh.

 _ **Smile**_ **.** Whispered _That_ voice from her memory, and Jessica nearly swallowed her tongue. If Kilgrave wanted her to smile so bad, she'd happily scowl for the rest of her life.

And anyway, Violets wasn't buying it.

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. He's my brother in law. My sister won't believe the bastard is cheating, and I promised to show her the text messages, and then some jackass goes and steals his phone before I can steal it myself, fair and square."

Violets snorted and shook his head. "Look, speaking as someone with a sister, a sister with a temper, I can relate. But I don't accept stolen goods in my shop. There are laws. I need proof of ownership, contact details-"

Jessica already had her phone out and dialed the number her client gave her. A moment later, a phone rang in one of the locked cabinets behind the counter.

"If you're not going to bother yanking the sim card, you should at least turn the ringer off." Jessica told him. "Now. All I want is the guy who sold you the phone. Where can I find him?"

"Look, I get that you're… motivated." The guy said, blowing right past the fact that she'd just admitted her cover story was a lie. "But if… and this is not a confession, _if_ a person was to accept stolen goods, the one thing he couldn't do is blab about it. Besides, if you're selling; you think you sign a contract? Volunteer your name?"

"A Kitchen Rat like you always knows who he buys from. It's how you know it's not a cop pulling a sting." Jessica said. "I know what Punisher did to the last guy who owned this place; and I know why. I'm willing to bet you took on at least _some_ of the… extra curriculars."

Leo Violets was unreadable.

"By any chance, did the guy who sold you the phone have any dried blood on his hands? His clothes? Any of the items he sold you?" Jessica pressed. "There are laws, and there are laws."

The shopkeeper's eyes flicked to the cash register. Jessica caught the movement. "You keep your 'other' ledger in there, don't you?"

The man pulled a small key and locked his register pointedly. "Listen, I don't think-"

Jessica picked the register up, and ripped the metal apart, tearing the whole thing down the middle like a sheet of paper. The shopkeep jumped back with a yell. In the time it took Jessica to thumb through the small notebook, he'd replayed the conversation in his head and imagined what hands that can twist metal could do to him. He turned to run and she caught him by the collar, hauling all three hundred pounds of him across the counter with one hand. "There are dates and dollar amounts in here, but no names; and no locations." She dropped him the four feet to the floor, hauled him up and dropped him again. "The guy who brought you that phone? He got it by killing the owner. He's one of your regulars! That blood is on your hands too! Where is he holding up now? TALK!"

Violets made his move, lunging over the counter for a shotgun he had hidden.

He moved first, she moved faster.

"See, and I was going to make this easy for everyone." Jessica sighed and reached into her pocket for her trusty ninety-nine cent cigarette lighter. "So, I'm betting your stash is somewhere in here, along with all the other illegal stuff… I wonder how many of these cabinets I'll have to open to find it." She hauled him up again. "And I have a history of opening doors the hard way. You can ask the people in my building."

* * *

It took eight minutes for her phone to ring again. Trish. She sent it to voicemail. Thirty seconds, and it rang again. She sent it to voicemail and sent Trish a text. **I'm working - JJ**

Trish answered a moment later. **So I noticed. Three Alarms and counting. Is he alive? - TW**

 **I want my police scanner back - JJ**

 **No. - TW**

 **He's fine. - JJ**

 **Still not getting it back. It's the only thing you can't sell for booze money. - TW**

Jessica switched off her phone. Violets had given her the name, in exchange for being hauled out of his burning pawn shop before he fried.

Marett. The junkie had a name. A little work on facebook while she took the train, and she had his story. Lived in the area around the projects, honest kid; staying in a cheap apartment with four roommates to cover the rent. Then The Incident happened, and the apartment was gone, and so were all his roommates. Hospital bills bankrupted him, and when he couldn't afford the painkillers, he was ejected from the Clinic.

 _He's probably been self-medicating ever since._ Jessica thought to herself. _Wonder if Stark knew about that part when he dropped out of the sky? Does that helmet of his give him social media feeds?_

In any case, it didn't matter. He had his issues, and they weren't that different from anyone else's, including hers. But he'd killed people for the survival of his vices. Of course, she had too; but she didn't like to follow those thoughts too closely.

Marett was easy enough to find, once she had his name. For his poison of choice, there were several places in the Kitchen that a fella without a home of his own could go to. But Marett was too hot right now. None of the regular dens would take him in. So it had to be a place that wouldn't ask for names. There were no shortage of abandoned places in the Kitchen. Most of them were way too dangerous for the even wildest junkie searching for a place to get high.

Jessica wasn't worried about the gangs, and the longer she spent turning over every rock in the eastern side of the Kitchen, the safer the streets were in her wake. Even so, her already sour mood was not at all improving. When she found Marett heading into an alley towards a dumpster, with a needle in one hand, and a baggie in the other, she debated whether to call an uber or just drag him by the ankles.

But eventually, she got him back to the office.

* * *

Marett came to, and groaned.

"The stuff in your syringe? It was easily the cheapest stuff you could possibly get." Jessica told him. "You're lucky to be alive, the way it was cut. If I'd let you use it, you'd be dead right now."

Marett groaned. "Sometimes, that seems like the better offer."

"Even so, I'm betting you're hoping for another option." Jessica nodded. "You get what you pay for, kid."

Marett looked blearily at the strong, but still padded handcuffs that tied him to her sink. He raised an eyebrow at Jessica Jones.

"My sister's." Jessica excused, somehow making it more awkward.

"You're not a cop?"

"No." Jessica shook her head. "Not a cop, not a doctor, not a nurse, not Salvation Army…" She held up his switchblade, holding it by her sleeve to keep her prints off. "And lucky for you I'm not. This switchblade?" She pressed the button and popped the blade out. It was broken. "The other half of this knife in a police file, taken out of a guy named Will Daley. I found it in your pocket, covered in your fingerprints."

"Not mine." The kid said automatically.

"I found it in that dumpster you were trying to climb into, along with a backpack full of used syringes and some discarded fast food wrappers. That where you're living now?"

"Someone threw something in a dumpster and a homeless guy was found near it. Big whoop." The guy rasped. "You can't keep me here."

"I figure in a few days, you'll be past the worst of it. Maybe by Monday, since you're already jonesing." Jessica sat on the closed lid of her toilet and put her boots up on the sink. "Get comfortable. I got no plans for the weekend."

"You can't keep me here! I got rights!"

"Sure you do. You have lots of rights. You want me to call you a cop, maybe a lawyer?"

Marett just looked at her like she was insane. The only cops that bothered to show up in Hell's Kitchen were the ones on the take. As tripped out as he was, even he knew that. "But... You can't." He said finally, getting worried. "You can't keep me here. I can call for help and get your pretty face mussed up."

Jessica held up his beat up phone, made sure he recognized it... and then calmly crushed it between two fingers. Lengthwise. "You can scream like a little bitch going through detox... which, I guess is exactly what you'll be this time tomorrow. But I've thrown plenty of people _through_ my office door. Most of the time I have to wedge it upright. They know not to come a'knocking."

Silence.

"HEEEEELP!" The Junkie screamed, loud enough to echo off the bathroom walls.

"Also, I added some soundproofing a few months ago." Jessica added, not even blinking. "Ironically, it was because I didn't want someone in another apartment to be... audible in here. But it works both ways."

Marett hauled at the cuff around his wrist determinedly for a few minutes, before the pain of it made him stop. "You know this can't hold me for long. Does anyone not know how to get out of cuffs?"

"Nobody on our level." Jessica agreed. "But you're already sweating bullets, your hands haven't stopped shaking, and I'm betting you're seeing six of me right now. Another hour or two, and you couldn't get out of a finger puzzle." Jessica reached over her shoulder to lift the lid off her toilet tank, and the bottle of whiskey she had hidden there. It was empty.

Jessica swore fluently under her breath. "So, like I said; I got nowhere to be this weekend, just as soon as I get some essential supplies." She stood up. "Do I need to knock you out, or are you going to stay put?"

"The second you leave the room, I'm outta here, and I'm taking everything you've got with me." Marett growled with forced bravado, and genuine anger.

POW! She slugged him into a long nap without hesitation.

* * *

Marett woke up and groaned. Someone had put a blanket under him while he slept, and folded up his jacket to give him a pillow. Jessica was sitting on her closed toilet again, feet up; reading a newspaper. The whiskey was beside her, and she'd managed to kill a third of the new bottle so far.

"Look, why are you doing this?" Marett asked. "You don't know me. You obviously don't care that much about clean livin'. What the **#$* &^** does it matter to you?"

"You've already put down three people trying to get the cash for your next fix." Jessica reported. "I can look after myself, but there aren't a lot in the Kitchen that can laugh off a bullet quite like me." She held up her paper. "The only other guy I know who can is having a bad day of his own."

Marett looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "I bust the wrong chica? Someone you knew? This is revenge?"

Jessica snorted, not even looking away from her paper. "Revenge. Right. I've had you out cold, twice. You think I'd need more than once?"

"Then why?"

She could have mentioned the client, but she didn't. That was where the 'Private' part of being a Private Investigator came in. Instead, she put a bottle of Gatorade next to him. "Drink. You'll start dehydrating fast in another few hours."

He started thrashing and cussing at her again, and Jessica left him to it for a while, returning to her newspaper. She pretended to be focused on the funnies, but she kept flicking back to local News.

* * *

Marett kept raving until he exhausted himself. She took a nap while he raged. He'd lose the energy for that soon enough.

Jessica hated sleep almost as much as she hated being awake. But it was another six hours before Jessica woke up, hungover. She looked around, and sighed. She hadn't meant to sleep so long, and that just meant she'd be awake all night. She checked the empty fridge, tossed out the oldest container of Chinese food, before it evolved into something intelligent; and went back to the bathroom.

Marett was glaring balefully at her, but his skin was growing pale and sweaty; and from more than just exertion. The bottle of Gatorade was untouched beside him. She picked it up and slugged it back herself. "Sorry. I know I gave it to you, but I need a hangover cure. And a little hair of the dog."

He just glared.

"You know that hangover symptoms are caused by dehydration? Booze has that effect. It's the only stuff you drink that makes you thirsty." Jessica explained. "Sorry if I sound like a schoolteacher. This is the one topic I'm an expert on."

"You s-s-still haven't-t-t t-told me why you're doing this." Marett rasped.

Jessica didn't look at him. "You know that AA has a three percent success rate?" She said lightly. "It's why I never bothered. I mean, I know that number sounds worse than it is, because you can stay sober for months, even years, and then fall off the wagon once or twice. Total success isn't really what the Twelve Step crowd shoots for. But…" She shook her head. "AA is voluntary. I'm not really good at appealing to people's better natures, and trying to get them to reform. That's not really what I do. I figure I can't ask anyone to stop being an ass when I don't even try." She tapped at his cuffs. "Keeping you here until you're clean again? That I can do."

He stared. "Then... you let me go?"

"Give me a break, Marett. I haven't been able to take a piss in my own john since I met you." Jones snorted. "You think I want you here a second longer than you have to be?"

"What makes you think I won't go right to the nearest dealer I know and get the stuff the second I'm outta here?"

"Oh, you probably will, I know that. And I don't care, I'm not your mother. You put your own life in danger, and that's your problem." Jessica shrugged. "But if you hurt anyone to get the cash you need, then it's my fault for letting you go. You do that, and I'm gonna find you again and break your arms and legs." She said this matter-of-factly. "You can sleep off your next hit in a hospital bed. You spend six weeks getting spoon fed hospital food while your bones knit and nurses wipe your ass, and they'll dump you anywhere in the Kitchen that'll take you once they find out you can't afford them." She gestured around. "I figure once you're done detoxing that crap outta your system, you'll have a better chance of avoiding this… unpleasant future that I describe."

Marett actually looked scared for the first time.

A few hours later, the dry heaving started.

* * *

Jessica switched on the radio after a while; just to drown out the sound of him trying to hock up a lung. Trish's show was on, talking to people in Harlem, taking calls about Luke Cage. Jessica didn't smile. In Luke Cage's story, she would always be the rebound girl at best. Not that she didn't care about him, or trust him, but there was way too much baggage for them to be anything more.

Marett reached the next stage of detox, and started shaking, bad enough that he couldn't stop. He was a twitching, drooling, sweating, mess of incoherent panic as his body screamed for something it couldn't have, and made him suffer for not providing it.

"Please…" He begged. "At least let me come down slower. Don't make me go cold turkey… I won't make it. You're killing me."

"No deal." Jessica told him, putting another bottle of Gatorade down. "Keep drinking. When you get to the puking stage, you'll need it more than now."

"You like it, dontcha?" He glared, half drooling, half spitting at her in rage. "You like having me locked up, helpless, at your mercy. Bitches like you all the same. You just want to be in control. What happened? Someone rough you up once? Then you get freaky superpowers and suddenly it's your turn to have people do whatever you want?"

Jessica stared at him, expressionless for a split second, before she lunged forward and had hands that could twist steel around his throat. "You sonofabitch, you think _this_ is unfair? You think _this_ is being controlled? That you you think, **Purple** Man?"

Marett couldn't answer, she was choking him. He was heaving, still twitching. She barely noticed that he couldn't breathe.

"ANSWER ME?!" She screamed in his face. "You wanna see what I can _really_ do when I'm pissed off?!"

She felt a spasm under her fingers and released him. He promptly heaved, puking all over himself, her floor…

"...w...w...what's purple?" He choked out once he got enough breath, and fought his way to the sink he was cuffed to, so he could heave again.

Jessica froze, stricken. _Did I say that? I didn't say that, did I?_

He was still coughing when she turned on her heel and fled the room.

* * *

She bounced off the walls before she registered what room she was in, tripped on the blanket that should have been on her mattress and fell down. The fall couldn't hurt her, exactly; but she wasn't in any hurry to get up.

 _Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._ She thought the words over and over. _Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane. Her hand was already reaching for her phone. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

 _ **You aren't free of me, Jessica…**_ His voice said in her ear, and she could feel his hands on her neck again. _**You love me too much, just like I always lov-**_

"Hello?"

Jessica unclenched a little. Just hearing Trish's voice made the crazy easier. _Say something, sis. Say some words, please; I don't know what to say right now, please say something… Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane._

"Jessica?" Trish called when she heard no answer. "Is that you?"

"It's me."

"Are you okay? You need me to come over?"

"Your show is on." Jessica whispered.

"Doesn't matter. You need me?"

 _Yes._ "Probably shouldn't. You wouldn't like what I've done with the place."

"What's going on?"

"I found your junkie."

"He's not mine, exactly." Trish said, but Jessica could hear the smile in her voice. "You're looking after him?"

"Trish, I can't keep a potplant alive." Jessica said finally, curled in a ball on the floor, holding her phone to her ear.

"That's because you don't know when a potplant needs water or sunlight. This, you can do. Malcolm speaks very highly of your own brand of... rehab."

"When do you talk to Malcolm?"

"He calls me for advice on how to keep you together." Trish almost chuckled. "You thought there was only one person in the world who cared, Jess. Now there are two."

Silence. _Keep talking, Trish; please... "_ You know that people who have been abused or bullied are statistically the most like to be bullies or abusive themselves one day?"

"I did know that." Trish nodded. "Why? What's happening over there?"

"The things Kilgrave said when he came back… When I was with him again… Things like 'you never appreciate what I do for you' and 'why do you make me do these things'... He honestly believed, that deep down I wanted to be with him, because I didn't try harder to kill myself. God, sis. I went through all the therapy and all the group sessions… Each and every battered wife and girlfriend there? Their guys all said the same exact words to them. Word for word."

"Just means that Kilgrave wasn't screwed up because of the powers he had." Trish told her. "Those women stayed with their abusive guys for as long as they did because part of them were still in love, or because they were too scared. You stayed because he had you under mind control, and you still managed to free yourself. It doesn't make you like other victims. It just… It makes you even more extraordinary."

Jessica said nothing, but sat up enough to pull over the nearest bottle.

Trish kept talking. "You know, that goes both ways. Kilgrave wasn't a villain because he had power. And you're not a hero because you do too."

Knock Knock.

Jessica jumped, suddenly panicked. The panic faded instantly when she saw the time. "Oh. The Client is here. Wanting to know what a hundred bucks a day is getting her."

"You've really gotta raise your rates."

"If you're bad at something, never charge enough to piss people off." Jessica groaned and stood up slowly. "Talk to you later."

* * *

"Jesus, what did you do to him?"

"Believe it or not, Mrs Daley; nothing but the handcuffs, and the black eye. The rest he did to himself every time he got enough cash to go up his arm."

"You are very certain it's him?"

Jessica pulled out a plastic bag with the knife, and then another with Will Daley's phone in it. Her one souvenir from Violet's pawn shop. It still had the previous owner's dried blood on it.

Mrs Daley recognized it too. The woman looked at the messed up kid for a long time. "So. This is the man that killed my son." She looked sideways at Jessica. "I… Is it wrong that I suddenly feel sorry for him? Look at him. He's wretched."

"I figure every bad guy has a tragic tale. Believe me, you should hear mine some time."

"You're no bad guy, Miss Jones. You said you're not a hero-"

"I'm not."

"-but you're definitely not a villain."

"This is Hell's Kitchen. There are no heroes here." Jessica said plainly.

"So, what exactly do you plan to do with him?" Mrs Daley asked finally.

Jessica shrugged. "You're the client. I was told to find him; that's all. If you wanted him dead, you shouldn't have come to me. I've played bounty hunter before, but…"

"If I went over and smothered him with a pillow right now, you'd stop me?"

"I have enough trouble getting insurance, or home repairs without actually turning the place into a crime scene. Again." Jessica drawled. "But I'm not your mother. You have proof now. Evidence, name, location. You can turn him over to the cops if you want."

"But it won't do any good, will it?"

"It might." Jessica nodded. "This is the guy, but I found the knife in a dumpster he was sleeping in, and it has no prints. I tracked him through the video on Youtube and the stuff he pawned. The pawn shop is run by his dealer, so obviously they didn't take his ID, and their surveillance cameras weren't even hooked up. If it was…"

"Then the one running the pawn shop would have evidence of all the times he accepted stolen goods, or sold anything illegal." Mrs Daley nodded, unsurprising. "So the knife he can claim is someone else's, and there's no evidence that he ever touched the stolen goods."

"To say nothing of the fact that he's seventeen. Even a Public Defender can get him back on the streets in a day." Jessica nodded.

"What will you do with him? I mean, if I..."

"He'll be done detoxing in another few days." Jessica offered. "And I can tell you from experience that it's worse than what Juvie will do. You've got his name. I can make sure he never goes near you again. You can put his picture up everywhere; give it to everyone you've ever met. If he's too hot to sell to, he either stays clean or goes someplace that hasn't heard of him. This is still The Kitchen. These Streets are very good at chewing up and spitting out the people who have to go."

Mrs Daley sniffed, and rubbed her red eyes sadly. She went over to Marett and nudged him with her toe. "Wake up."

Marett did so. "Huh?"

"You killed my son." She told him. "I want you to confess to the police when she lets you go."

Marett just stared, wondering if she was a hallucination.

"You killed my son for the paper in his pocket." Mrs Daley said again. "So you could get wasted." Then she pulled her leg back and kicked him square in the gut. The messed up kid retched and groaned, and Daley hauled back and kicked him again. And then a third time, until he threw up some more. "I never really appreciated how appropriate it was to call someone like you 'wasted'. You're a waste. What you did to my son was a waste. It's all just..." She raised one foot to come down on his face when Jessica reached out and hauled her back.

At last, the tears came, and Daley wept on Jessica's shoulder. The younger woman winced, trying not to make it clear how much she'd rather be anywhere else.

The older woman dried her eyes finally and pulled a few crumpled bills out of her pocket. "The rest of your retainer."

Jessica hesitated, and handed two of them back. "Buy your boy's grave a nice bunch of flowers. And keep the evidence. You think it's worth going through the motions, go ahead. He'll have a harder time relapsing once he's Inside. And they have juvie programs that can… I don't know, I don't have much faith in them, to be honest. But it's something. And if he falls off the wagon again once he's out… Well, there's me. Whatever road you pick, he won't bother anyone you know again. It's not enough, but it's what I can do."

Mrs Daley seemed to really look at Jessica for a moment, and smiled a little. "You're a good girl, Jessica Jones."

Jessica looked away from her maternal smile, uncomfortable enough with the praise that she wanted to drain her bottle dry immediately.

* * *

Malcolm came back to the office with Chinese Food. "I figured you hadn't eaten."

"Your impression of Trish gets better with each passing day." Jessica took the box.

"Who's there?!" The voice called from the bathroom. "Help! Get me outta here!"

"Oh, you found him then?" Malcolm tried to sound casual about it. He really did.

"No, that's my boyfriend." Jessica said sarcastically. "Don't let him fool you, we're going to get married one day."

"Heeeeelp!"

Malcolm turned away from the bathroom pointedly. "You tell The Client?"

"Yup. But it doesn't make a difference." Jessica pointed at the bathroom door. "That guy will be clean when he leaves. It'll take him less than an hour to find more of what he needs. Iron Man himself stopped the Dealer, but the minute he flew away, it took Violets less than three days to find an even better way to steal things and sell his crap. I burned his shop to the ground, and he'll probably make a fortune on insurance and be back to selling by Tuesday."

"The Avengers can't do anything about guys like him or Violets. People like you can. You could run him out of the Kitchen, and make sure he has something to think about when he plans to come back."

" _If_ he comes back. Though, most people in this kind of neighborhood do. They can't really fit anywhere else." Silence. "Why do _you_ keep coming back, Malcolm?" Jessica asked suddenly. "It's not because I pay you well, because I don't. And it's not because you like my Dazzling personality."

"You remember the day after Kilgrave? You plugged your phone in…"

Jessica winced. "If any one of those poor saps callin' me for help spent ten minutes with me, they'd run screaming to anyone else."

"No, they wouldn't." Malcolm said firmly. "You think any of those people would walk if they knew you slept on the couch? So do they. You think those people wouldn't ask you for help if they knew you drank? This is Hell's Kitchen. Getting loaded is basically the only perk of the neighborhood. You think any of those battered girlfriends, or for that matter Mrs Daley would call an Avenger? They don't even bother calling a cop; and for the same reason: Even if they took the call, they would show up and make some noise, and then they'd leave. Just like every cop who ever gets called on a Domestic. The minute they're out of view, it starts over again, only worse. Superheroes may care more, but they've got stuff to do too."

"I am NOT a superhero!" Jessica slammed a fist down on the desk hard enough that one of the legs broke. "Superhero is a word that we use when we talk about people like the Avengers, with their long blonde locks, and their gleaming suits of armor, and their star-spangled onesies. But they don't live down here. Those guys are who you call when there's an Alien invasion, or a city being stolen up into the air. Which is fine, because that's what they do. If Sokovia had happened here, I wouldn't have been able to do **$#!^** to help any of them. For that, you need heroes like the Avengers."

"But down here, where we live, we need you." Malcolm said. "I try to picture Thor walking around the Kitchen sometimes. Just doesn't work. Gangbangers down here wouldn't be at all impressed by the magic hammer. They don't talk to cops, you think they'd talk to a pretty rich boy like Stark?" He gestured. "The Hulk couldn't do more damage to Harlem than he did last time. He can't trash the Projects more than we do every day by ourselves. And Iron Man? Please. If they can fly, we're invisible to them. Cops can't find guys like Leo Violets, neither can Avengers. For that, we need someone who lives on our level."

Silence.

"Hawkeye and Black Widow, maybe." Jessica offered. "I saw the leaked lingerie shots of her in Esquire. She could get _me_ to talk."

"But she wouldn't, because they don't live down here." Malcolm held up a Superman comic. "Y'know, when I was a kid, I was obsessed with Superman. But he always fights the big robots that try to tear down skyscrapers. Here in the Kitchen, we don't have any building taller than the Hospital."

"All the lead paint in the old buildings, Superman couldn't see who needed help down here anyway, even with X-Ray vision."

Malcolm's face bloomed into an amazing smile. "You like Superman comics?"

"Shaddup."

Malcolm was silent a moment. "That guy in there? It was me, not long ago."

"I remember." Jessica said quietly. "I'm killing brain cells as fast as I can, but I remember."

"Don't tell me you're not a hero." Malcolm said evenly. "If you were that messed up, you would have thrown me off a building the minute you found out I was working for Kilgrave."

Jessica shook her head. "It wasn't that long ago he had me too." She said. "I have a weakness for addicts, because I am one." She gestured at the bottle. "I have a weakness for people who can't trust the way their brain is wired up."

"Yeah, you can tell yourself it's a weakness; but the Twelve Step guys know better. You just didn't want me to be controlled by something evil. Marett? I read his facebook page. Good kid, got messed up by something that wasn't his fault, found a way to deal with it when he needed to, and then he needed to all the time. Nothing a cop or an Avenger can do about that."

The sound of retching came from the bathroom, and Jessica got up to go check on her prisoner.

* * *

Malcolm pointed at her when she came out. "See, this is my point. I can't picture Thor scrubbing up puke."

"I don't know, I've seen movies." Jessica offered. "Those Vikings had some wild parties."

Malcolm took one of the takeout boxes, looked around for a chair, and finally settled, cross-legged on the floor, tucking in with his chopsticks. "You remember after The Incident? They had all those telethons, all those fund raisers. They showcased the entire city, the money came pouring in, those cheerleaders from the Stark Expo…" He waved a hand around. "Day and night, the stories came rolling in about how awesome the reconstruction was, and how fast the city had bounced back; and how tough New Yorkers were…"

"Not a dime reached The Kitchen, or Harlem, or Chinatown." Jessica scorned. "We got hit worse than most places, but down here on our level, we can't even rebuild the slums after an _alien invasion_ without someone laundering the cash and declaring himself Kingpin of something." Jessica snorted. "But the thing is… We still need them." Jessica toasted. "National Guard, Air Force, Me… We were all on the ropes that day. Nobody with a badge is gonna rally behind Luke Cage the way they did for Captain America."

"Maybe Iron Man can run a Dealer out of town, but he's not around when his customers get more desperate and start stabbing. Maybe you ain't going to save the world from an alien invasion, Jessica… but for these ten square streets that nobody else cares about, where people get through the day by pretending not to hear the guy hitting his kids in the next apartment… Jessica, you're exactly the kind of hero that can actually do something helpful."

Jessica said nothing to that for a while. "I'm less likely to create Ultron, that's for sure."

Malcolm pointed at her phone. "The people who left those messages? They're all exhausted, counting their pennies, beaten black and blue, and curled up on the couch. But they haul themselves off the couch every morning and go to work, or make their kids breakfast, and then they do it all over again. And then one day they do the bravest thing they've ever done. They call Jessica Jones and ask for help from someone who knows what it's like to be them." He tossed the empty box away. "I don't think any one of them would have a problem with you being messed up; and I know they'd never call an Avenger for help, any more than they'd call a cop."

"Because they don't live on Our Level." Jessica sighed. "Well, this session has been disturbing on many levels." She stood. "Keep an eye on the guy detoxing, but don't free his hands. I'm gonna go get drunk. If the phone rings, don't promise them anything."

* * *

"You heard the show?"

"I did." Jessica sighed. "You're going to get yourself in trouble if you don't cool it with the Meta Talk. Did you hear half the things they were saying about Luke? Someone's going to picket your radio booth; and nothing gets a girl fired faster than that."

"Did you hear the _other_ half of what they were saying about him?" Trish countered. "Speaking of, you talk to Luke lately?"

"I had no idea where he was until today's paper."

"You still get newspapers. Unbelievable. You heading to Harlem?"

"I thought about it." Jessica sighed. "But the truth is, I'd stick out more in that part of town than a nearly seven foot black guy the approximate size of a linebacker ever would. Besides, you got callers. One Meta busting heads is a folk hero. Two of them is a monster movie."

"Tell that to the Avengers. You just don't know what to say to him."

Jessica hesitated. "Is that so hard to understand?"

"Y'know, Cage got Thralled too. If anyone can sympathize with you enough to forgive… You were the one that took Kilgrave down, Jess."

Jessica shrugged, though her sister couldn't see it. "I get that you want me to have a regular guy, to say nothing of some backup. But I'm honestly not sure I'm his friend any more. An ally, maybe; but… Whoever the big guy's knocking boots with now, I hope she comes with less strings than me."

"You sure you want to get into a 'bad choice of one night stands' contest with me, sis?"

Jessica almost smiled. "We're screwed up, aren't we?"

"Oh yeah; but that's not why I'm calling. "I thought you'd like to know that Violets has declared that the fire which took apart his shop was an unfortunate accident."

"Well, it's not like he can claim anything he lost on an insurance form." Jessica wasn't surprised. "But it means the cops don't care; so there's no need to ask people about me on the air next."

"Also means you don't have to worry. The final word on the Kilgrave matter left out most of the 'meta' aspects of what you could do. They were more interested in what _he_ could do. So…"

"Nobody coming after me with a copy of the Sokovia Accords." Jessica summed up. "Good. Is that why you're asking about Luke? Are they looking for him?"

"Everyone is, but nobody seems to know where to find him right now." Trish said. "Y'know, if you did… I mean, there's a lot of love for people like you. Enough to he heard over the fear. If you did get outed one day… The Avengers may not be worth much on your level, but they have their advantages. You'd have resources, funding, forensics, backup… To say nothing of all the TV Deals, action figures, merchandise…"

"You had all that, Patsy." Jessica shot back. "Did any of it help your life?"

"I had you." Trish said with affection.

Jessica rubbed her eyes. "I… Nobody's going to make an action figure. Nobody's going to make a blockbuster film. Not about me. I'm the direct-to-Netflix-Adults-Only kind of superhero. The kind that doesn't get billboards, that you have to pay extra for, and don't let kids see."

"Everyone's something." Trish smirked. "Look, I'm back on the air in a few minutes. Lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

* * *

Marett woke up after a while. The shakes had passed. "Thirsty…"

Malcolm was waiting with a glass of orange juice. "Here. Don't know if you're up to food yet."

"Who are you?"

"Not that long ago, I was chained to that sink." Malcolm said plainly. "It gets easier."

"The skinny bitch says that if I use again, she'll break my limbs." Marett groaned as he drank slowly. "She done that to you yet?"

"No. But then, I haven't used again. And I didn't kill anyone." Malcolm shook his head. "Just so you know, you're surrounded by people who can sympathize with what the drugs do to your brain, and your choices. But you still have to make it right. I do."

"Think turning myself in is any better than... not?"

"Not my call, but take my word for it: You should believe the skinny bitch when she threatens you."

* * *

"And we're back. If you're just joining us, today's topic is Luke Cage, and the superhero phenomenon. Are they figures of hope, or something to be feared? Our lines have been full of some pretty strong opinions this morning, and plenty of eyewitness testimonies. The number of people who need a hero in this town keeps going up every day. Let's get back to the phones. Go ahead, Line Three."

"I'm a first time caller."

Trish froze, recognizing Jessica's voice. "Glad to hear from you, Caller. What's on your mind? Bearing in mind that we're a family show."

"I live in Hell's Kitchen. And… the world changed on us just as fast." Jessica said. "But that's happened before. Look at the history of this neighborhood sometime. Cops did nothing, so the locals did it themselves, like full on Gangs of New York sh- stuff back at the turn of the last century. It's good that there are Avengers out there, because when the Sky Opened and the cops, and the military, and everyone else needed help, they had someone to turn to. Places like Harlem and the Kitchen, the only heroes we can count on… They need rescuing too. Some of them more than anyone else. This isn't like Times Square. If there's a showdown in Harlem, it won't be swept under the rug. If they come for Luke Cage, the people he's helped won't look away. People don't rubberneck here. If they're staying to watch, then they've got skin in the game, and they'll stay in the game until it's over."

"Because the streets take care of their own?" Trish guessed.

"Yeah." Jessica agreed. "On our level, people know who honestly wants to help; and they don't pretend they don't know them when the wind changes."

"Well, speaking for myself and about twelve of the twenty nine calls we've received so far, I hope the heroes of Hell's Kitchen know how much the people they've saved appreciate them."

"Well…" Jessica said uncomfortably. "If they can't read the mood of a place this tight-knit, they probably shouldn't be hero-ing."

 _And that's as close to heartfelt as I'm going to get on the air._ Trish smiled. "Probably true. Thanks for calling."

* * *

Jessica disconnected the call. Four levels below, Marett was sitting across the street from a police station, hands trembling a little. Sitting on the fire escape, Jessica wasn't sure if he was going to turn in her, or himself. She wasn't sure the cops would care either way.

Marett had been sitting there for almost an hour. Jessica was in no rush. She had been paid, and that meant she had the rent covered, and liquor. More than that was luxury. If the guy was going to go find a dealer, she didn't really have much reason to stop him any more. He stopped being her responsibility the minute she had kicked him to the curb.

Except she kept following him, just to make sure.

Marett worked up courage enough to get off the bench, march halfway to the police station… and turn around swiftly, losing his nerve. He went back to sitting, trying to work himself up to going in there.

Jessica shifted, trying to get comfortable.

And then the window behind her opened. "Are you Jessica Jones?"

Jessica jumped, startled. The only people who asked her that were usually under hypnotic orders. "Yes?" She tensed.

The old man in the window retreated out of sight, and came back a moment later with a steaming mug. "Coffee. For you. It's cold today."

Jessica stared. "What?"

"A friend of mine? His daughter was a waitress at Niku."

Jessica winced. Kilgrave's hanging trap was not a fun memory. "A daughter of a friend?"

The old man nodded and pressed the coffee cup into her hands. "I don't know how you take it."

Jessica returned to her stakeout. "Dark, strong, and bitter. Much like myself."

The Old Man smiled broadly. "Don't worry. Whatever you're up to, I won't tell anyone."

The window slid shut an instant later, leaving Jessica with a hot beverage and an odd sensation in her chest. It took her a moment to realize it was a positive emotion. Support from strangers. A new feeling for her. She told herself not to enjoy it too much. It could just as easily have been someone who felt the opposite.

Down below, Marett had apparently made up his mind, and was going into the police station. Jessica drank the last of her coffee, and stepped off the edge of the fire escape. She landed lightly, and only left a small crack in the pavement. One of many that the sidewalks had in this part of town.

Nobody even glanced over. Those that had seen her out of the corner of their eyes made a point of not noticing.

The Streets knew how to take care of their own.

* * *

 **AN** : ** _Read and Review_**


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